


The Numbers Game

by Pegaltan



Category: Naruto
Genre: Breeding, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Forced Pregnancy, Gang Rape, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegaltan/pseuds/Pegaltan
Summary: How a shinobi village replenishes their ranks.





	The Numbers Game

**Author's Note:**

> For Kinktober 2019. Because I can neither draw nor have the endurance to post something every day. Please heed all warnings.

Customs change. Peacetime means that they can no longer kidnap wandering shinobi as breeding stock. Shortly after the end of the First Shinobi War, Utatane Koharu is summoned to the Academy where she is taken aside into a side office clearly named the census bureau. In front of two medical-nin and administrator Senju Tokiwa, she is told to strip, take the metal pieces out from her hair and to disarm herself.

She has been expecting this. But it is still a surprise when the medical-nin, who introduces herself as Masuyo, no family name given, wraps her hands with green chakra and cups her breasts, her hips and her belly, leaving goose pimples in her wake. Though it’s not meant to be sexual, judgmental or degrading, Koharu cannot help but feel that she was measured and found wanting.

“Pretty.” Tokiwa comments with an appraising disinterest. “It’s always easier when a girl is pretty.”

“She is too thin.” Opines the second medical-nin.

“She can be fattened up. She is healthy and her courses are regular.”

This is a woman’s work. This is a kunoichi’s work during peacetime.

She is unmarried. Her teammates, save Danzo, are married. And she knows Danzo to be unmanned. It is a simple numbers game. Too many died during the war. No amount refugees can fill their depleted ranks. At best, a talented orphan or two may become cannon fodder. What the village needs is shinobi children.

Masuyo cannot meet her eyes. Tokiwa smiles.

“Let us begin.”

Money exchanges hands. Her new husband seems awestruck at the prospect of a bride, a foreign bride, a woman he hadn’t spent his entire life snatching glimpses of in the public baths. He is a sweet boy—he presents her yards of rough cotton for her to dye and spin clothes from. But he is just a boy. He is a fool.

Koharu finds herself alone in a little backwards village in the Land of Lightning. The village women hate her on sight. They see her for what she is. They hate the presence of a stranger in their midst, causing their men to stray.

Her husband, thankfully, does not notice. He is unconscious on their first night, heavy with drink. She is careful to have him spill his seed on her belly, in her hands or between her thighs. His children would be useless, fit only for plowing dirt. But he is gentle. He asks her if it hurts and becomes wide eyed when he sees the smear of blood which she cut from her thumb. If she had a choice, if she was a farmer, a housewife, a nobody, she could have been happy with him.

She fills her days with work. It is hard work. Mending holes in her husband’s socks is almost as grueling as stalking Kiri shinobi through water. She knows through intelligence reports that Kumo scouts this area regularly, seeking entertainment.

Koharu expects time to prepare. She is wrong.

They strike in broad daylight. Shinobi walk brazenly into the village to ask for alms. She catches the attention of a tall blond man with bronze skin. He perks up and crooks a dirty finger at her, a grin revealing the gaps between his teeth. The bingo books name him, Chikara Goro, the mad dog of Kumo.

She has been tracking these men for a while. Chose them over other border teams. She was given that choice. A choice of a rapist. She knows that none of the men here have a bloodline ability to steal. But they are cunning. They are strong. They are alive. They are as good as any.

Girls, prettier ones, virgins with prospect of marriage, are dragged out from their hiding places and tossed into the village center, chests bare and spotted with tears. When a man, not Chikara Goro, another shinobi, just as broad, fairer with short brown hair, reaches out for her, her husband tries to protect her.

He is cut down.

People start screaming.

She turns on her heel and runs.

She makes it to the other side of the cornfield before she is caught. It was a calculated risk. No civilian woman could have run this far. But the pursuit whips the Kumo shinobi into a frenzy. It boils their blood and excites them.

Two of the scouting party have followed her. Two shinobi who thought her worth the chase. She chokes as a hand closes around her throat. Her captor weighs her like a spring chicken before a kunai appears in his fist. He slides the blade down, its point tickling her skin. The fabric of her clothes tear thread by thread. She jumps every time it catches on a fold, a button, before sawing free.

She feels the cold, mountain air on her skin. She was trained. She hyperventilates.

No amount of training could have prepared her for this.

Black blotches have nearly taken over her entire vision before she is dropped at her captor’s feet. He kicks her in the face and his squad mate groan at the abuse. The smaller man scurries over, thumbs the cuts and scrapes around her mouth and bloodied nose.

“She’s pretty.” He says with a smile. His eyes are pitch black. There is no sympathy in them. He tucks her hair behind her ear as the man who caught her snaps her leg.

When her screams have faded from her ears, she can hear him say, “Come on Furui. Stop. Look at her. She’s not going to fight.” He sticks two fingers in her mouth and wiggles them around. “You’ll be good, won’t you?”

She lets out a weak “Uh huh.” And he lets her go.

Furui rearranges her limbs. She is lying on her back. Her eyes are wet with tears. She brings her arms up and attempts to cover herself. “Nuh uh, I thought you were going to be good sweetheart.” The smaller man says, his yellow hair casting a halo around his face.

Koharu shakes her head. No matter what happens, she does not want him angry. He pins her arms down. She can feel his hot breath against her cheeks.

The pain of her broken leg is forgotten when she feels fingers dig into the meat of her thighs and spread them apart. She moans as Furui’s cockhead is deliberately rubbed at her entrance and squeezed in, just the tip, as her walls stretch to accommodate his girth. He is too thick. He is going to break her. She feels him swell even as he thrusts in short bursts, every bump and ridge of his length dragging at her narrow passage.

He holds her hips down. And suddenly, there is a cock in her mouth, a bulbous head pushing against the inside of her cheeks.

She is being filled from both ends. Her spine arches as her body is starved of oxygen.

Hours seem to pass but in reality, she knows it’s mere minutes. Furui and his blond friend work out a rhythm, tormenting her, occasionally reaching out to tweak a nipple or to drop a kiss. Furui’s breath comes shorter and shorter, no longer pulling out as far, grinding into her pelvis and holding her tight.

It is the blond who comes first. As quick as he appears. She coughs, turning her face to spit out his maleness, even as her body clenches and milks Furui’s seed from him. Furui tosses his head back and shoved himself forward in one final thrust, heat trickling into her womb as his cock jerks and twitches to its completion. 

Koharu has succeeded her mission. She begins to cry.

“You should be grateful.” The blond rebukes with a touch of satisfaction. “That could be the next Kumo warrior in there.” He pats her belly like he would an animal, a dog or a pet hare. Furui pulls out noisily, his flaccid cock bumping into her open thighs. She expects him to continue. Kumo endurance is legendary. But he tugs his breeches up.

“We should return.” Furui says. “Others will be waiting.”

Her eyes widen in horror.

They make a rough splint for her leg. She is forced to walk. The blond bends her over and fucks her on the side of the beaten path. It is nearly dusk when they make it back.

The villagers are subdued at her return. She can read the relief in their eyes. It won’t be their wives and daughters on the chopping block tonight. Pain makes her cruel. Her lips twist downwards as she is pushed in front of the two other Kumo shinobi who are drunk on sweet rice wine.

This time, when Chikara Goro, crooks a finger at her, she goes on her one good knee, dragging the other behind her.

She is all but naked. The back of her thighs are roped with dried semen. But he has her sit astride him like a bathhouse whore and slips right in.

“You must have been well loved sweetheart.” And she hears the blond laughing in the background, calling for more sake so that he could catch up.

Koharu was well loved but the man who loved her is dead. It is a stranger who has her pinned on his lap, fingers pushing another man’s seed into her womb. When a farmer with downturned eyes bring bottles of sake, she is forced to swallow a cup. Another, then another, until her chest beats with a borrowed warmth and the cock in her belly doesn’t seem as bad.

Goro is brutal. He bites her lips, sucks on her breasts and peppers her neck with kisses that draw blood and hoarse moans.

Eventually, the slow slide of her torn passage is not enough and he begins to thrust in earnest. She cries for herself, for her husband and their days old marriage. She feels him swell inside her and he comes with a grunt, his seed sticky and oozing where they are connected.

The blond drags her off and has his way with her again, emboldened by drink. It is only when two more men have had their ways with her that Goro deigns to speak to her.

“What brings a Kunoichi of your caliber to the Land of Lightning?”

The words don’t register at first and when they do, she keeps her gaze fixed to the candlelight. She imagines that if she could draw it in, she could birth a fireball from her lungs.

“Your reputation precedes you. Or did you really think we wouldn’t recognize the only female student of the Second Hokage?”

He kicks her legs open.

“It is good to see that you still follow the old ways. Hopefully this one is mine but it is a numbers game eh?”

He kneels between her legs and thrusts once more into her sloppy cunt.

“We should slit your throat. But that would mean another war.”

“No,” She pleads. “Stop.”

But the heat of him is welcome. She hitches her thighs and clings to him even as he slaps her flanks and spears her with his manhood.

“They sent a real slut this time.”

“Careful.” Furui grunts. “That slut can still pour a katon down your throat.”

A tongue invades her mouth.

“Look at that. I think she likes it.”

They flip her over and press her onto her belly. She thinks there may have been more men after that.

“Oh, look at you. How terrible!” The village woman simpers as she helps Koharu into the bath. She sees the truth. It is vindication in the other woman’s eyes.

In the bath, in the privacy of a house she once shared with her husband, she spreads her legs and lets the water flow over her ravaged womanhood. She tilts her head back, willing the tears to go away.

Nine months later, in Konoha, she gives birth to a boy. A healthy boy. His hair isn’t quite blond. But white hair is known to run in families of the Land of Fire.

She doesn’t want him. He will go in the system like others. Mother unknown. Father slain.

“Will you give him a name?” The midwife asks.

Koharu thinks for a moment.

She sees her son sometimes. She is glad that he survived. She doesn’t think she could have survived a second conception.

The first thing she does when she is elected councilwoman is to make the Academy mandatory for all eligible children, no matter their clan status. Predictably, there is outcry. But no more kunoichi will be sacrificed as she had been. Customs change. Some traditions are not worth keeping.


End file.
